


Pure Evil

by kateyboosh, Terrantalen



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crack, Crackmas the 13th, Get Ready To Head To The FedEx Store Because You're About To Ship It!, Happy Ending, Hitchfox, It's Still Noel And Julian Fucking If You Squint So Don't Get Your Knickers In A Twist, It's True Love You Slags!, Knifeplay??, Love Bites, M/M, Rad Collab, This Is The New OTP, Viridescent Tumescence, Wait Til You See The, You Don't Believe Us Now, because it’s all, canon typical beastiality, canon typical watersports, declarations, technically, the Hitcher monologue of a lifetime, this is normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen
Summary: The literal pissing contest, and then fox bumming.Yes, the ultimate crack. No one wants it. But, boy, do we all need it.
Relationships: Baboo "The Hitcher" Yagu/The Crack Fox
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Pure Evil

**Author's Note:**

> We declare this the Raddest Collab yet.

He remembers London as it used to be. Streets mired in mud, churning with filth and offal, thick with ill humors and rife with cholera. London with black, hateful nights, too dark to see a hand held up in front of your face, too dark to do anything but hear breathing three steps ahead, running, running, running away, frantic, panicked, like a mouse trapped in a knitting basket… but those days are long gone.

Even in the present day, London has some dark, twisting streets. Streets that are strange and narrow, that cut off for no apparent reason, only to start up on the other side of a wall, or end at a narrow set of red stairs, leading down.

The light in the alley is harsh white, so the stairs look the color of fresh blood. The door at the end of them is black, black as his boots; blacker, even. Black as his heart, wherever it’s got to, some place out of his body and locked away, who knows where, but he doesn’t care where it is, ain’t looking for it, and even if he was, that’s not what he’s doing here.

He’s come to settle a score.

The Hitcher walks to the door, raps on it with the head of his cane. The sliding window opens and a set of brown eyes look at him. “Password?”

“Piss off,” he says.

The eyes behind the door appraise him, then the door cracks open, swings wide. The Hitcher steps into the club. 

He’s hit with warmth, with the smell of cologne and stale champagne; and another scent, one that a lot of people don’t like, but he does. He reckons most of this lot do.

It’s wall to wall with geezers, lot of them with not much on except for fish nets made into shirts and trousers made of leather. Lot of them dancing awful close, couple of them sitting up on a balcony looking over the crowd. There are even more geezers locked up in cages along the back wall, getting harassed by gents with feathers.

The few birds in attendance are all well over six foot, many of them wearing heels that push them up even taller than that. Damn nice looking girls, a couple with promising bulges barely concealed under tiny mini skirts, but none of them are who he’s looking for.

A large man up on the balcony seems to be getting a shave from a French mime underneath a palm tree while another man sucks on his toes like they’re sugar puffs.

Fucking weird place, this. But that’s more or less what’s expected for a club where people wee on each other. Ain’t really got a chance to be normal, has it?

A spotlight turns on and combs through the crowd, lands on some nonce in a suit. He gets grabbed and thrust up on a stage at the left hand side of the room. The Hitcher watches along with the rest of the audience as a cage is wheeled on stage and then opened. 

If you took a fox, ran it over with an omnibus, kicked it in the teeth, pulverised it in a meat grinder, rolled it in dirt and gave it a garter to wear on its head, it would look like what skitters out of the cage.

The Hitcher grins. Just the cove he’s been looking for.

He feels a tug on the sleeve of his jacket and turns. A little weaselly scrap of a fellow dressed in a Victorian maid's outfit lifts a serving tray of drinks at his elbow. 

He feels a tug on the other sleeve of his jacket. A clown and another fellow, one of them fishnet fellows, this one in waders, are dragging a thick fire hose behind them.

"Drink for the gentleman?" Weasel Face asks him, same time as Waders says, "Spritz of foam?" 

Any other evening, the Hitcher would push past them, shoving through the punters gathering thick around the lip of the stage, blackening eyes and bruising shins to get to his quarry where it simpers and squirms onstage.

This evening, the clown inches forward, smiles an overwrought grin, and sprays water all down his front from a little posey he's got pinned to his collar. 

The Hitcher runs his tongue over his teeth. 

It's a detour, right, but even pure evil can do with a warm-up. 

His gloved hand lingers over the tray. Green fingers settle on a thick, full glass.

"Don't mind if I do, boy, don't mind if I do." 

The clown gets a face full of free booze to start, payback and all. It drops the hose and mimics tears as its powdery makeup runs down its face, spattering onto the straw covering the mucky floor. 

The Hitcher lifts him by his braces and then the clown is arse over teakettle into the corner of the club where music is churning out. The handsome fellow dressed as a sawbones ducks. The little'un wearing a pencil costume ain't so lucky.

The clown's round red nose hits the floor and bounces with a squeak into Weasel Face's tray.

The Hitcher sips at the last drop of booze rolling around the bottom of the tumbler, then closes his fist around the glass and squeezes.

"You want some next, boy?" 

Weasel Face freezes. He drops his tray and flees, a skittering mess of ruffled fabric. The Hitcher crushes his maid's cap under the heel of his boot and turns to Waders. "How about you, squire?" 

Waders is out of his sight in an instant, turning tail and leaping away like a fleecy, playful little lamb.

A high-pitched, manic giggle cuts through the roar of the crowd as the fox shuffles into the spotlight. Banjo chords stab through the sour air.

The Hitcher's coat swirls as he strides forward.

"Oi! You!" he shouts, jabbing his elbows, kicking his way through the crowd, pointing at the fox. Drinks go flying, fingers tangle in fishnet, fabric tears with a sickening rip as disgruntled shouts echo through the club. The front of the crowd senses the menace approaching the closer he gets. They part, and the fox freezes as he reaches the lip of the stage. 

His hand slaps the board, slaps it like a rotten side of beef hanging on a hook, fingernails scraping splinters out of the rough wood. He gets purchase enough, the soles of his boots scrabbling on the side of the stage.

"Oh, Christ," he grumbles, arse in the air. 

"What are you nonces looking at? Never seen a Cockney geezer struggle to hoist himself up before?" he bellows at the crowd. 

The gent onstage in the suit catches his powerful Polo peeper. He inclines his head toward the side of the stage.

The Hitcher nods at him. He drops his grip on the boards and strides up the three short stairs, gripping the handrail along the way. 

It ain’t the best entrance he’s ever made, but it ain’t the worst neither, and he saves it by grabbing Mr. Suit by the jacket collar and flinging him into the crowd.

The fox’s eyes crackle with an insane delight as he watches the man go tumbling, his pointy, decaying teeth clearly visible in his grinning mouth. He tickles the strings of his banjo then laughs a sort of tinkly little laugh, a shattered music box’s giggle. “Oh mister! Are you an angel?”

“An angel, boy?” the Hitcher asks. 

“An angel man. Mister minty emerald angel, giving the gift of flight! Look at him, soaring around like an eagle, sir!”

The Hitcher’s eyes slide over to where Mr. Suit is lying on the floor, being tended to by a boy in a body sock and suede platforms. It’s not often he comes upon someone madder than he is, but he’s beginning to guess the fox might be properly off his nut.

When he looks back, the fox’s eyes are glinting like pools of acid. “Everything’s different in my world,” he sing-songs.

“A little too different,” the Hitcher says and the fox’s expression flickers, then the manic smile is back in place. Fucking urban foxes are a fucking menace, this one is no exception. “I been looking for you, boy.”

“Me?” the fox asks, delightedly. “Oh, sir, whatever are you looking for me for, sir?” He grins another wild eyed grin, “You come to make me fly, sir?”

“Sommink like that,” the Hitcher growls. “We’ll get to it in good time, boy,” he says, flicking his long coat back. He strides across the boards, the leather of his boots gleaming in the spotlight. He snaps his fingers at the balcony.

“You, up there!” He gestures at the spot. “Tragic backstories and motivation need proper lighting, see? Accent, not ambient, or I’ll slash you up so thin you’ll dissolve in a gentle London mist.”

The spotlight brightens and then doubles, and a hush falls over the crowd as the Hitcher plants himself center stage.

“It were a long time ago, in the old days, the dark days, the days when the sun didn’t rise through the fogs and the fogs coiled up like black cats across your shoulders, and everything was beautiful and dark, before they had the gas lamps put in and polluted all the decent shadows with filthy light. Those were the days, boy, the days of my youth, when I was but a nipper, playing with me mates in the street, playing with a coupla rocks and some ratty string, because that’s all we had, but we loved it! The games, the fun, the anthropomorphization of shitty inanimate objects! 

“It was a time of innocence, a time before I’d ever jammed a broken jar into a man’s eye as a greeting, and I was happy! Happy as an albatross swinging round a man’s neck! But it didn’t last! My innocence, boy, my innocence was stolen from me, taken from under me massive Cockney honker, by a grinning red cunt.

“You’d see them sometimes, in the night, whispering about, like milky legends, the little blighters, creeping and crawling round the rubbish heaps, stealing all the good bits of rancid gristle, pissing all over the alleys and trying to get into our coats when we wasn’t looking, they were everywhere, boy! Everywhere, thick as rags on a shop floor.

“Then, one befriended me. He took me under his wing, took me into his den and fed me off his own teat and I drank down the fox milk, and learned a fox’s mind, learned all about hopping up high to break through a crust of icy snow so as to pounce on a rodent in the winter, and what a pain in the arse it is and I rightly told him I weren’t going to do it, and he said I had to or he’d shred me up with his pointy little teeth, but I told him no! Oh, and he bit me, boy, a bite like a bear trap made outta thumbtacks, right on me cheek, but I still wouldn’t do it, so he took out his little furry penis and he pissed on me! Pissed on me and laughed, as he weed on me face, then he weed on me hands, and he weed all over me poor, frail little body, got me soaking wet, then he turned me out, out onto the frozen streets!

“I was humiliated! I was friendless! I was alone!

“I slept in the gutter that night, staring up at the dark oblivion. Me innocence turned like six day old fox milk left in the sun. I learned hate from that fox! Learned it true and I never forgot it. 

“When I grew up, I went back to his hovel, and I said to him, ‘You shoulda killed me when you had the chance!’ and I left him soaked in piss, with a penknife in his throat, and a note pinned to his body. Do you know what that note said, boy?

“It said, _Don’t forget to murder that fucking fox today_ , the last item I’d had on my daily tasklist, and I’d accomplished it, so I didn’t bother crossing it out. I left it as a reminder to all the other foxes not to cross me, and I swore, swore up and down the line that any fox with even a single drop of his blood in their veins would get the same treatment!”

The Hitcher drops his hand. He takes a breath, vengeance and hatred and pure fucking evil swirling through his rotten, ropey veins, gathering in the massive green erection tenting his trousers. 

When he looks up, the club is empty. The handsome sawbones geezer is long gone; the mangled one dressed as a pencil is dragging himself across the floorboards to the exit. Everyone else has scarpered, except for one man perched on the bar. 

The Hitcher jabs his finger in the man’s direction. “You’ll want to be leaving now, boy. None of this has anything to do with the likes of you.” 

The man blinks up at him beatifically. The buttons on his too-small suit strain against him as he stares directly at the Hitcher’s crotch. 

"I'd kind of like to stay and see how this plays out,” the man says as if he’s in a daze, his voice as flat as his hair is sculpted. He rubs a seeking hand over his nipple. 

"Fucking pervert, don't stay after you've discovered the premise!" the Hitcher barks.

The man shrugs and reaches behind the bar. He pours two full-sized bottles of gin down his front, maintaining eye-to-crotch contact the entire time, and then pirouettes to the door with his hands firmly on his nipples, leaving the Hitcher alone with his quarry. He stops to boot the pencil geezer up the arse and straight down the apples and pears, and the Hitcher grins. A fucking freak, but a freak with style.

The Hitcher rubs his hands together. He stretches, cracks his knuckles. An empty club. Just the two of them now, him and the little red fucker.

The little red fucker who’s slinking off behind the curtain, sour banjo notes pinging left and right.

“Tryin’ to get away? I don’t think so, boy,” the Hitcher says, stepping forward and seizing the fox by the tail. He pulls the fox back toward him and the fox’s syringe claws scrape uselessly on the wood. “I’ll have me vengeance off you, boy, whether you like it or not.”

“Vengeance, mister?” the fox asks as the Hitcher lifts him into the air. “What sorta thing is that to need from me, just a harmless little foxy fox, with my little banjo and my special squishy boots?” the fox asks, kicking his feet.

The Hitcher looks down and sees white rubber stretched over the fox’s feet. He makes a face, for, as sure as he’s an evil Cockney geezer, the little fucker is wearing _jimmy hats_ on its feet. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it, but then the fox twists in his hands, showing surprising agility for an animal that looks as shit as it does. It coils back on itself, teeth snapping.

Instinct makes the Hitcher heave the fox across the room. The fox lands, its little booted feet gripping the wood like glue. It glances back at the Hitcher with diseased yellow eyes and grins. “I never slip in my magic sticky boots!” it says, gleefully clicking its heels. Then, with a giggle and tingle of banjo, the thing runs off behind the stage.

The Hitcher’s lip curls and he runs after the fox, swearing.

The back door of the theater is swinging closed just as the Hitcher reaches it and throws it open again. The alleyway it opens on is wet, chokka with skips and ripped bin bags. 

He doesn’t see any evidence of the fox, but he’s got a feeling his quarry hasn’t gone far; no, the fox is still there, somewhere close by. Over the pungent scent of refuse, he can smell it. A stink like the inside of a composting toilet during a cholera outbreak, a rotting, horrific stink that could turn a man’s stomach from five hundred paces. It’s almost enough to turn him flaccid again, but nothing gets him up like the thought of a good punishment piss, cept maybe slicing things up.

The Hitcher pulls out his switchblade and slashes through a bin bag. Rubbish spills out over his boots. “Come out, boy,” he says. “Come out,” he stabs into another bag, tears through the plastic with the edge of his knife, “and I’ll make it easy.”

There is a sound behind him. A maniac snicker, a crunch of plastic. The Hitcher spins around with his knife ready, but there’s nothing there, just bald, orange-lit asphalt and oily runoff from rotting takeaway.

“You want it hard, boy? I’ll give it to you hard…” He takes a step toward where the sound came from.

“ _You promise, mister?_ ” the fox snarls as it crashes into the Hitcher’s side. The Hitcher goes down against a pile of bin bags and loose rubbish. The fox laughs, jabbing at him with its needly paws.

The Hitcher backhands the fox across the nose and the fox yips and rolls off him. He gets to his feet, ready to slash the fox’s face up or slash all over his face, one then the other, with no preference as to the order, but when he stands, the fox is holding its face, weeping.

It stumbles and then falls onto its knees. It rubs its nose. “Go on, then, mister emerald angel man. Go ahead and do it. End my suffering. Take my life. I ain’t got nothing to live for, anyways, sir, and now my little nosey has a big ol’ ouchie in it. That was all I had left, sir, the one part of me that wasn’t in pain.”

The fox is so utterly pathetic, so wormlike as it weeps and grovels, and rolls in the rubbish all around it, that it almost doesn’t seem like it’d be satisfying to have a wee all over it.

Then again, only one way to find out, really.

The Hitcher stabs his switchblade into a pile of bin bags and reaches for his flies. They’re nearly undone already, his erection straining forward against the fabric like an eager cart horse hearing the flick of the whip. His button pops off of its own accord, lodging in the cracked brickwork behind the fox’s head, and it stops him weeping momentarily as the Hitcher reaches in and scoops himself out with both hands, putting his cock on display like a fishwife at the market shows off the prized catch.

“Ah, Christ, there she is! The mighty green trouser eel, the terror of the Thames, the loathsome fiend what lurks in the bushes of Lambeth! Never quite made it over to Peckham or Richmond, mind, but it would be a powerful sight if I had, boy, viridescent tumescence all throughout the town.” 

The Hitcher gives himself a pump, just for the good of it, just to catch the fox’s attention, not that he has to, because the fox’s sticky, gleaming eyes are glued to him like flies drowning in honey. He whinnies with Victorian delight.

“Ah, it’s a virile green member, as sure as I’m a virile green rampsman! Hard as the beak of a raven, harder than cobblestones, harder than wrought iron fences, with less fancy scrollwork but all of the sticking power, squire! Oh, the places that this green tumescence has been! More places than there are places to be! Inside breezeways, and bilges, down rabbit holes, and out cockerel's eyes, through ropes of catgut and deep inside plates of cold spaghetti! Everywhere, boy! And satisfied them all, I have. 

“But enough of that, you little fucking freak,” the Hitcher bellows. “I feel a powerful vengeance bubbling deep within, a fearsome sloshing.” He steps forward, over the fox, and the first drips of piss come out of him like raindrops from a thick London sky, until it turns into a streaming, steaming downpour of revenge and Cockney urine all over the fox’s face. 

“You like that, boy? You like it? Go on, take it like your father, and your mother, and your mother’s second cousin, twice removed, took it before you!” 

When he peers down through his powerful stream, the fox’s tail is swishing against the puddle on the pavement. First, he thinks it’s twitching in agony, and he grins, the fucking little menace a coward just the same as its rotten red ancestors. But then, the stench in the alleyway doubles in on itself, slamming into the Hitcher’s flattened nose like a hansom cab loaded with putrid dynamite. It lessens the flow for a moment as he realizes the fox’s ragged tail is flapping with delight, its joyful, rancid piss mixing with his against the rotting brickwork.

"Christ, boy. That smells like an open sewer near a slaughterhouse. You ought to go to a doctor, mate."

The fox scrabbles to keep him there when he pulls away to get a breath of fresh alleyway air, his piss ricocheting off the wall. "Can't afford a doctor, mister," he giggle-pants. "Don't stop now, I need my medicine." His voice dips to a growl. "I said, give me my medicine." 

When the Hitcher cuts off his flow and moves to stick his face over the dumpster to alleviate the smell, the fox sees his chance. He surges forward and sinks his needle teeth into the meat of the Hitcher's arm.

Like a flash of lightning in the dark, the blade of a knife arcs through the air. The tip rests against the fox's throat, "Bite me again, you slag, and I'll cut you open and pull your guts out like they was filling for a Whitechapel piñata. That's steak and kidney pie, to you, mind.” 

The fox squirms and grins a manic grin. “Oh, stab me, stab me, Mr. Green Man! End my misery, put me to sleep! You're so manly with your manly moisture rod and your big tall boots and your big green thumb! Stick it in my eye, Mr. Green Man!”

“Christ, what’s the matter with you, boy?” the Hitcher says. He drops the writhing, piss-soaked fox and flicks his switchblade closed. He don’t remember any of the foxes that came before this one being so far off their rocker.

A thick string of drool snakes out of the fox's mouth and spatters into the puddle next to its filthy feet. "Tell me more about your boots, Mr. Green Man," it pants, "tell me with your soles. Step on my tail, daddy, step on me good."

The Hitcher’s cock swings through the cool night breeze, erect as the steeple of a church, as he gazes down at the fox’s glistening, sodden fur.

“Back in my day, boy, they'd flay you open and chop your liver up to spread on toast if you looked at a fox sideways.”

“Oh, Mr. Green Man, open me up and spread me sideways!” the fox gasps. It sounds so close to ecstasy already, the Hitcher’s surprised it’s still breathing.

“Something is wrong with you, boy,” the Hitcher says. 

He’s not sure he minds, though. 

He lifts the toe of his boot and shifts it over the fox’s tail and then presses down, leaning more and more of his weight on that foot, grinning as the fox writhes in place. “Something bad wrong.”

"Bad can be good," the fox squirms, "real, real good!" It giggles maniacally, then its voice drops like a brick crashes through a sheet of glass. "Let me show you how bad." 

The fox surges forward. Its jaws snap in the dingy light of the alley, and it sinks its crooked teeth into the ankle of the Hitcher's boot this time.

The fox’s teeth don’t get all the way through the tough, old leather, but the Hitcher can feel the vice-like grip of its jaws. Used to be, he’d a mate, Peter, what had syphilis. He took bad turns, turns like a top spinning on the inside of a wine bottle, ricocheting off the glass and pinging around so fast, you could barely catch him flipping. That’s what the fox is like, all addle brained and horrible, mad as a hatter drinking straight from the bottle of mercury.

Only two things ever used to fix Peter when he was having a turn. One was a knife to the throat, the other was a kiss on the lips. The Hitcher pulls the knife out of the bin bags next to him and holds the silvery tip at the fox’s eye. “Watch your step, squire, or that eye is going to be hanging on me Christmas tree. Until the flies get it, mind. Then it’ll be maggot food, same as you’ll be, if you ain’t careful.”

The fox giggles, demented and high-pitched, and it goes straight to the Hitcher’s green, throbbing cock. 

There’s an old aphorism about ports and storms and any of ‘em being good enough when one of the other is brewing. The kind of storm that’s brewing in the Hitcher’s viridian length is the kind of storm that mandates a good weathering, and the fox has _ports_ aplenty from what he can see.

The fox rolls onto its back on the piss-soaked pavement, showing the Hitcher its fluffy belly, and something else. A storm of its own, red and proud as the head of a turkey ready for slaughter.

The Hitcher strokes himself, looking down at the fox and the fox’s eyes go wide, its face crazed and delighted.

“You want some of this, boy?”

The fox grins. It rolls off its back and onto all fours, turns and presents its rear to the Hitcher and twitches its tail to the side. 

Can’t get a clearer invitation than that.

The Hitcher goes down on his knees and scoops the fox into his lap. It doesn’t take long to find something in the alley that’s slimy enough to serve the purpose, and then he’s slicking up the fox and preparing it to get fucked to bits, like a crinoline run through a mangle.

The fox writhes, snapping at him then giggling, then growling, and then going breathless. He stretches the fox to its limit and then he slides himself into it.

"Take it, boy," the Hitcher brays. "Take it, you little red bitch! Yeah, that's it! Take it all in! Christ, boy! It's like putting me cock into a tiny tin of tomato paste, like trying to cram a juggernaut into a hosepipe, like a stag beetle trying to get off with an ant, which may not be the best metaphor, but it's still the truth!"

The fox claws at the Hitcher’s knees, scrapes its toes against the cobbles as the Hitcher snaps his hips. "Oooh, daddy, knead me into the bricks!” it shrieks. “Pull me apart like soft bread!"

The Hitcher pulls back, hears the slurp of his cock sliding free and then the sploosh of reentry. "Back in my day, boy, bread was made out of wallpaper paste and beetle husks. Soft?” he asks, burying himself to the hilt. “What's soft, squire? I'll have you so hard, you'll chip teeth, I'll take you so rough, you'll scuff me boots like a paving stone."

The fox laughs. “Hurt me, daddy! Hurt me, _like I hurt you,_ ” the fox demands, coiling back and trying to bite the Hitcher’s wrist.

The Hitcher grabs the fox by the scruff and holds its teeth away. He puts his knife against its throat again, and the fox’s eyes roll up into its head ecstatically. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth and it pants sharp, high-pitched moans as the Hitcher picks up his pace.

“I’m going to fuck your rotten guts out, rip ‘em out of you like a the insides of a jack o’ lantern on 29 October, one of the ones that’ll still be fresh on Halloween because the folk what carved it had patience; then when you’re hollowed out, I’m going to light you up, boy, light you up with whale oil, throw you down on the bricks, and scatter you over town in a confetti of blood and bits.”

“Pull my guts out?” the fox asks, its little body all aquiver. Its eyes dart down toward the knife and its tail twitches excitedly, tickling the Hitcher’s stomach. “In the middle of my secret shame times?” 

“I’ll do it, boy. I’ll slice you up and make you into shoelaces for a tiny child’s boots.” 

“With your sharp, pointy knife?” 

“With me knife and me hands. I’ll tear you apart like a rotten animal, like what you are. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you boy? Bet you’d thank me proper like, for cutting you up and fucking your skull when I was done, then punting it into the Thames with me old hobnail boots.”

“ _Oh, daddy!_ ” the fox screams with horrible delight. “Do it! Do it harder, harder! _I said give it to me harder!_ ”

This time when the fox goes to bite, its teeth close on the blade of the knife and the Hitcher watches as it tongues the edge of the blade, presses against it until it starts to bleed. Its jaw spasms open and it shuts its eyes, grinning, giggling, panting, shrieking between each rough thrust.

It’s wrong as anything he’s ever done, bumming a fox in their comingled puddles of piss, out in an alley with rubbish strewn round them like ticker tape, but it’s so fucking right, too. It’s like he’s found the only soul in the world dark as his own, the only bit of glass sharp enough to cut him. Sharp, smashed up glass, stained black with soot, and he can crush it under his shoe, and it snaps apart and stabs him at the same time, and the pain they inflict on each other is the truest sort of feeling there is. Hate, pain; pure fucking evil wrapped up in a warm sock and buried six feet deep in your nan’s garden, waiting to get dug up and let loose. 

He yanks his blade out of the fox’s mouth and jams it into a bin bag at the end of a particularly violent thrust, one that makes the fox squeal and pant like he’s sprinted the London Marathon. “That’s it, boy, nice and loud. I want them to hear you all the way in Yorkshire,” the Hitcher commands, thumping at the fox’s brittle ribs. 

The fox snivels and huffs and puffs underneath him. “You’d best mend your bellows boy,” the Hitcher grunts, and the fox simpers. “Break me, daddy,” he giggles, and then his voice drops. “Break me before I break you.”

And oh, the Hitcher’s close enough, and warm enough, and he’s _ready to let loose_ , ready to go like a crooked priest in the whorehouse after Sunday service, like a fucking steam powered train full of dynamite and fireworks. He pulls all the way out and pounds back in, whinnying until he can feel piss-matted fur meeting his shamrock-green pubes.

“Oh, Christ, I’m nearly there,” he brays, a vigorous tingling like coins spilled from the pockets of a well-dressed mark building in his minty-green balls. “It’s getting closer, close as the nose on a-”

“Are you done yet, sir? I finished ten minutes ago, sir,” the fox snivels. The Hitcher stops mid-thrust and fixes him with a black look.

"Shut your mouth, boy. I'll finish when I'm ready to finish, and not a second before, and when I'm finished, what a finish it'll be. It'll be such a finish that the world'll go black, a cummy eclipse the likes of which ain't been known since the kraken sank into the sea, when I finish, boy, you're going to be at ground zero for the apocalypse, it's going to start up your anus and spiral out like the nascent seed of a black hole, boy!”

The Hitcher bellows and grunts and thrusts, and brays and moans and trembles, and his "Ohhhhh, whoa, whoaaaaaa"s fill the night, frightening a flock of nesting starlings and deafening several kingfishers, and when he finishes, the fox's world doesn't go black. It goes red.

The fox's heart swells in its little chest, and its rheumy, leaking eyes go wide, and it sinks its gnarled teeth into the Hitcher's arm. 

It's a love bite.

The Hitcher reels back, wading out of his moment of pure depraved happiness.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, boy? I’m pure. Fucking. Evil,” he splutters, enunciating each huffed word with a prod to the fox’s ears. He scrabbles for his switchblade with the other hand, ready to dislodge the fox by any means necessary, but it’s fallen into an abyss of leaking, burst bin bags. “What don’t you understand, boy? I hold a candle to the devil and he blows it out with his sulphur breath when he sees the likes of me in his den.”

The more the Hitcher talks, the more the scratchy fuzz that covers the fox’s ears starts to feel like the smooth, worn velvet what used to cover the theater seats at the panto under his massive green thumb, and clearly, that won’t do. He can’t be havin’ any of that, not with his wicked ways, and his nefarious mind, and his cock lodged tight in-

He slides out of the fox and drops it on the pavement. Both of his hands go to the task of tucking his cock back in his trousers, and he ignores the fox’s heavy breathing in favor of kicking through the split bin bags in search of his knife. 

The Crack Fox looks at the Hitcher's tattered coat and his top hat, and he remembers the fine clothing he used to dress in, before the club times, back when he was a country fox. In the dirty, buzzing light from the cracked streetlamp at the lip of the alley, the Hitcher's putrid green skin looks like the fresh green of the leaves on his favorite tree, the one he used to lie under for entire afternoons, feeling the breeze ruffle through his sleek red fur. 

The Hitcher paws through a stack of rubbish and overturns a sack full of bottles that break and sparkle on the wet pavement like the stars used to sparkle in the country sky, nights that the fox would fall asleep under his tree and wake to fireflies buzzing around his snout. There’s toilet roll dangling from the heel of the Hitcher’s boot, and he’s swearing up a storm, the words falling onto the fox’s head like a gentle country rain.

The fox darts forward, through the Hitcher’s spread legs. He leaps, the ropey muscles in his haunches still weak, and lands atop a teetering stack of soiled cardboard boxes. Then he pounces, straight down into the center of a juicy refuse abyss. 

“Christ, boy, that’s you done for,” the Hitcher shouts, covered in muck from the resulting spray. “You’d best burrow to the ends of the earth, you little red prick, to a garbage utopia-”

The fox paddles through the trash, passing rotted fruit and milk bottles gone sour. There are crinkly wrappers for squishy boots aplenty. He likes those, but his tiny eyes gleam gold when he spots the soiled silver of the switchblade tucked up against a bushel of mushy, blackened peas. The blade goes back between his teeth, and he pops out of the garbage sea close enough to nuzzle against the back of the Hitcher’s knee, as planned. 

“Mr. Emerald Angel Green Man, I’ve got your knife now,” he giggles, leaping onto the top of a skip. “You can have it back, sir, but only if you sit down a moment, sir.”

“And why shouldn’t I just kick your face in and take it back instead?”

“Because we’ve had a time, sir. A shared fuzzy tingle time. You liked it, sir?”

The Hitcher isn’t about to go that far, no so far as _liked_ , but then he thinks about the fox’s tight little body, and all the writhing, and biting, and the pre-sex weeing and… well, it weren’t bad, is the point.

He looks around and then sits down on an empty pail labeled MSG.

The fox scampers over and jumps up onto his lap. He sits down. The Hitcher grabs the handle of the knife and the fox lets it go. He puts it away and then his hands are empty. 

He fills them with the fox’s skull, just palming it at first. He thinks about saying something about ripping his head off or twisting his neck, but he doesn’t. He feels the soft, slightly wet fur under his hand and it’s… not nice, but not unpleasant. He starts rubbing the fox’s ears again.

The fox sighs and curls itself up.

He’s not having a post-coital cuddle, like some fucking sop. He’s still going to shank this fox someday. This is just a strategy to put the sting in it when it finally happens. Break his figurative heart before breaking the real one! What’s more evil than that? Nothing.

The Hitcher rolls his thumb around the perimeter of the fox’s ear canal and the fox leans into the touch. “Like that, boy?” he asks, his voice warm and thick as pea soup.

“Mmm, yessir. It’s nice, sir. Big, strong Emerald Angel Man. You love me, sir?”

“Love you?” the Hitcher spits. He jumps to his feet and launches the fox off his lap and into a bin bag. “I don’t love no one, squire, not even me own mum! Never known the touch of a kind hand in me life, and never given a kind touch to no one, and I ain’t about to start! I used you and now I’ll knock you flat, like a flapjack stuck into a letter press.”

He says it, but he doesn’t draw his knife, and when the fox peeks over the edge of the bin bags, he looks up at him with his evil yellow eyes crackling with malevolent joy and the Hitcher feels a tingle somewhere under his ribs. Just a bit of off beef repeating on him, not anything like what has been described to him as _affection_. Or is it?

He straightens his coat. “I’m taking my leave of you, squire. But I’ll be back, boy. Back to turn your guts into nylons for me niece. When you least expect it, I’ll fall on you like crows on a carcass and I’ll turn your skin inside out, send it to a taxidermist, get you stuffed and then mount you in an embarrassing position for all eternity. Pose you playing cards or suchlike. Something unnatural, something that’s an affront to fox kind. Of all your rotten brethren, you’re the worst specimen I ever seen with me solo Polo peeper, and that’s a fact.”

The fox’s tail twitches. “You mean it, sir?”

“Course I fucking mean it!”

The fox dashes out of the rubbish and wraps its arms around his calf, then sinks its teeth into his boot, drooling and moaning and… the Hitcher shakes him off.

The fox rolls back into a pile of bin bags. It shakes its head then fixes him with its mad eyes gleaming bright as comets in a pitch dark sky. “It’s like fire, sir,” it says. “A bright, roaring fire made in a steel, cylindrical fireplace. That’s how I feel for you. I want you to burn me up, sir. Burn me like you forgot to put the timer on when you were making a soft bread, sir. Scorch me to bits. I’ll let you, sir. We were made for one another.”

Even as the fox says it, the Hitcher knows it’s true.

He walks away anyway.

The Crack Fox whimpers, shivers in its cold bin bag nest. It barely hears the words the Hitcher says over the rustles and soft cries of its own voice, words that sound almost like _I love you, you slag_.

And then he’s gone.

But the fox knows that he’ll be back. He feels it, sure as he smells the stench of the Hitcher’s piss in his fur. He’ll be back.

**Author's Note:**

> He'll be back, and so will we! Join us for the wedding of the century in 2021; you're cordially invited to Hitchfox 2: Let's Get Hitched!


End file.
